


Possible (17/39?)

by Mexta



Series: Possible [17]
Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: M/M, post-412
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-04
Updated: 2014-08-04
Packaged: 2018-02-11 17:02:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,553
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2075991
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mexta/pseuds/Mexta
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lip gives advice</p>
            </blockquote>





	Possible (17/39?)

Mickey came out of his bedroom in the morning, poured a coffee, headed to the kitchen table, and stopped in his tracks.  “The _fuck_?” he asked.

Svetlana sat across from him, cigarette in one hand, pen in the other, papers and notebooks and — what was that, a textbook? — surrounding her on the table.  She looked up as he stared at her.  “I study,” she said shortly.  “Adult school.”

"What?  The fuck _for_?”

"Learn better English.  Get better job."

Mickey snorted.  “You don’t need English for your job.”

"Office job.  I get office job."

"The fuck you do."  Mickey plunked himself down at the table and snatched up one of the loose papers.  "What’s — _accounting_?”  

She took it back coolly without looking up.  “Bookkeeping.  I do it for my father when I am little.  Numbers don’t need good English.”

He was still a little mystified, but starting to understand she was serious.  He watched her for a moment in silence.  “What you gotta work in an office for?” he asked finally.  “You got a job.  You’re a whore.”

This time she stopped writing and looked up.  She put her arms on the table and leaned forward to face him intently.  “ _You_ were one to tell me.  Five years from now maybe I be on sidewalk.  What did you say?  Sucking guys off for five bucks each?”  She shook her head and pulled the textbook closer.  “I need better plan for future.”

Mickey pulled his gaze away and stared around the room.  “Who — ” he began, then started again, trying to sound more forceful.  “Who said you get to quit?”

She gave him a look.  “You don’t help me … I help myself.  You worry about Orange Boy.”

"Yeah, I worry about Ian but that don’t mean … "

"You worry about his future.  I worry about mine.  And Yevgeni’s."

Mickey shut his mouth.  In a way, that sounded like a reasonable trade.  He took a gulp of coffee and stood up.  “Fine, go ahead,” he said, after a moment, and even to him it sounded a little pointless.  Svetlana didn’t even look up.

******

Ian was in one of his unresponsive states, so Mickey got him some soup and then went out, not knowing what else to do.  He walked aimlessly at first, heading in the general direction of the abandoned buildings where he and Ian used to hang out.  But somehow the idea of a bit of target practice didn’t appeal to him this morning.  He felt restless, frustrated, like everyone else in the world had figured something out that he was missing. 

What was all this common interest in the future?  When did every conversation start to centre around a person’s plans?   Where did all these goals come from? 

Mickey himself had figured out that he was fucked for life years ago.  Maybe he’d always known.  Anyway, he’d never expected anything except a life on the margins, moving between jail and a scratch-and-claw existence on the outside.  Life plans had always been for other people.  Like Ian Gallagher. 

He looked up, and realized he was outside the Gallagher’s house.  On an impulse he strode up the porch stairs and rang the bell.

After a couple of minutes Debby opened the door.  “Hey,” he said, with a quick smile.  “Lip home?”

"Upstairs," she answered, stepping back.  "What’s wrong?"

"Nothing.  He’s fine."  Mickey loped up the front steps and into the room he used to share with Ian.  Lip was lying on the top bunk, smoking a cigarette.  He sat up when he saw Mickey.  "What’s up?  Ian?"

"Naw, he’s fine.  Fine as ever."  Mickey moved into the room and leaned against a cupboard, suddenly awkward.  "Wanted to talk to you."

Lip gave him a cool look, then offered a cigarette, which Mickey took gratefully.  The rush of smoke in his lungs was calming, as Lip kept watching him.

"So?" Lip asked after a while.

"Ian, uh — Ian said something about Malcolm X once," Mickey said abruptly.

"Malcolm X?  The dude?"

"The college." 

"The _college_?  What — a Milkovich thinking about his future?”

There it was again.  Mickey wanted to punch Lip but he tried not to let it show.  “It’s an option.”

"Besides jail?"

"Look," Mickey said, suddenly angry.  "Someone’s gonna have to support Ian.  He can’t do it himself right now and runnin’ the rub and tug ain’t gonna cut it.  I need to think of somethin’".

Lip’s eyebrows shot up before he could cover his surprise with his usual veneer of detachment.  “You’re actually serious.”

"Fuck off, man.  I’m just asking.  What — like, what do you do there?"

Lip pulled on his cigarette and leaned forward, forearms on his knees.  “It’s a trade school.  You learn a trade.  That what you’re interested in?”

" … I dunno.  Maybe.  I heard some of ‘em pay good.  I ain’t doing roofing again."

"Roofing’s not a trade.  Trades are skilled.  Some of them can pay pretty good, if you find the right work.  Not likely in the south side."

"Who says it’s gotta be in the south side?

"Oh, you planning to leave, Mickey?"  Lip gave him an even, heavy-lidded stare.

Mickey had no idea how to answer these questions.  He hadn’t thought of any of this more than a few moments ago.  Why couldn’t Lip just get to the point?  “Don’t we all wanna leave here?” he asked, stalling.

"Well, I guess we don’t exactly want to stay."  Lip swung his feet round the side of the bed and focused his gaze down on Mickey.  "You can go over there and get some information, you know.  They have counsellors and what-not.  Always looking for new recruits."

Mickey slid his gaze around the room edgily.  If he’d wanted to hear from the school, he would have just gone over there, wouldn’t he?  “I’m asking you,” he said shortly.

 ”What are you asking me, exactly?”

That was a good question.  As usual, Mickey hadn’t completely thought this through.  He forced himself to stop talking and just think for a minute.  Lip waited silently, watching him.

"You’re the one going to college," Mickey said finally.  "Is it … a good idea?"

"Malcolm X is not the University of Chicago."

"I mean, community college.  For me.  Is it a good — plan?"

As if in response to Mickey’s long consideration, Lip paused for a long moment before speaking as well.  “It could be, depending.”

"Depending on what?"

"Well, you gotta cover the money.  Those courses are expensive.  But they got lots of programs for _disadvantaged youth_ and stuff.  You’d probably be able to get some help.”

"I can come up with a chunk’a cash one-time if I need to."

"Yeah I know, you’ll just take on an extra ass-beating commission, right?  Or move an extra bale of coke."

"Whatever."  Mickey cocked his head and looked up at Lip.  "Don’t worry about the cash.  What else?"

"They’re long programs, man.  And you’re investing in them for life.  You gotta find something you can stand doing.  Maybe even like.  What do you have in mind?"

Mickey shook his head.  “I dunno.  Haven’t figured it out yet.  Uh — security?”

"Not a skilled trade.  That’s minimum wage, standing on your feet all day in some mall.  You don’t go to school for that."

It was hard not to feel deflated.  Mickey couldn’t think of anything he really liked doing.  “Um … mechanical things?” he said after a moment.  “I like taking things apart and building them and shit.”

"What kind of things?"

Mickey licked his lips.  “Guns?”

For a second Lip looked like he was going to roll his eyes, but he had the grace to cover it up by taking another drag of his cigarette.  “Yeah, okay, let’s work with that.  Mechanics - machine shop, woodworking, something like that.  What about high school, Mickey?  You graduating?”

"Naw, man.  Not even close."

"Maybe finish before you think about college?"

"I ain’t got time for that now.  I gotta come up with some kinda steady income, a real job.  I can’t sit in a class all day."

Somewhat surprisingly, Lip nodded as though he understood.  “You might be able to combine some kind of GED program with a trade certificate at Malcolm X.  They do things like that. “

"Okay."  Mickey nodded.  "So that’s what I want."

"Might work.  But one other thing — how’s your reading?"

"I can read!"

Lip wasn’t put off by Mickey’s heated response.  “Textbooks?” he asked.  “Manuals?  Technical guides?”  He paused, and when Mickey didn’t respond, he added, almost gently, “They’ll make you do tests and stuff.  Half the courses will be in class.  If you can’t keep up you’ll just be throwing your money away.”

Mickey turned his head aside, feeling like, once again, he’d been backed into a corner.  No options, no hope, no future.  He shoved his cigarette butt into a empty glass.  “So there’s no point trying,” he said.

"I didn’t mean that.  But you gotta get your reading skills up to speed if you want to get through."

"What are you saying?"  Mickey glanced up sharply.  "You gonna tutor me?"

"I don’t have time for that," Lip said.  He jumped down from the bed suddenly and walked over to the bedroom door.  "But something along those lines."

"What … ?"

Lip pulled open the door and shouted down the hall.  “Carl!  Come here.  Got a job for you.”


End file.
